


Stars & Stripes

by hitlikehammers



Series: Not A Euphemism [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: All of The Avengers are Basically Having Sex, Avengers-Themed Sex Toys, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:42:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was innocent. It was mostly-if-not-entirely innocent, and well-intentioned, and Steve would like it to be documented and acknowledged that <i>he</i> was not the one who decided it’d be a good idea to go rummaging through their colleagues’ bedside tables, alright? It was not Steve’s idea, and therefore Steve cannot be blamed for the thing that was found as a result.</p><p>The star-spangled, silicone <i>thing</i> sitting on the duvet between them, shaped like a...bowling pin.</p><p>A very thin, very particularly-contoured bowling pin.</p><p>“It’s a set, too,” Tony adds, as if that makes it any better. “We’ve all got one.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <span class="small">Inspired by <a href="http://sarmai.tumblr.com/post/57774699811/6-pieces-of-pleasure">this art post</a>.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars & Stripes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weepingnaiad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/gifts).



> This is entirely because of [this fan-fucking-tastic art post](http://sarmai.tumblr.com/post/57774699811/6-pieces-of-pleasure), and because the lovely [weepingnaiad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad) needed some fun. But seriously, that link. All the credit goes there.
> 
> Originally, I was going to have Tony/Pepper double-teaming basically everyone with these toys, but then this happened. So maybe it'll go farther, maybe not. I don't even know.
> 
> All my thanks to [lindmere](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lindmere) for the speed beta of awesome <3

“That’s not—”

“Oh, but it is.”

“No, it’s—”

A raised eyebrow cuts Steve off before he can even start to figure what he means to say, because honestly, the words escape him.

“Seriously, Cap,” Tony smirks, lowering the sunglasses he’d never deigned to take off, staring over the rims as he leans an elbow against the mattress. “Don’t play coy. Wartime’s a frisky place to be.”

Steve does not blush at the implication.

He absolutely does _not_.

It started off completely innocent, too. Well, no, fine, not _completely_ innocent, because Tony Stark was involved, and nothing involving a Stark, particularly not _this_ Stark—and Christ Almighty, does Steve want to go back to the beginning and tell Howard what he ends up being responsible for—is ever quite innocent.

But it’s _mostly_ innocent, truly, because they’re all just a little on edge when Coulson goes back in the field, Tony especially, and all they’re aiming to do is install a few security protocols that’ll watch the man’s back if the worst occurs. Best interests, common good: hero stuff. The sort of thing Steve was made for.

And as for ending up in the bedroom that everyone damn well _knows_ Phil shares with Barton, well.

Tony had been adamant that there was a fuse box in there _somewhere_. 

And yes, in retrospect, Steve should have probably asked what the _actual_ likelihood was of said fusebox being in either nightstand in the master suite, but his mind had admittedly been preoccupied.

For instance, there are eighteen steps in the staircase of Coulson’s quite-nicely-sized townhome. It took eight minutes and fifty-two seconds for Jarvis to hack the entirety of the existing alarm mechanism on the place, a fact which both Tony and his precious AI summed up in a single word: _pathetic_. Tony’s shirt, as it happens, is clinging to his chest today just tight enough to show the raised line of scar tissue where the reactor used to be.

Steve wonders what the likelihood of a bottled water being in one of those nightstands might be. Not that he needs one, his mouth’s not dry.

Something might be wrong with his salivary glands, though. Some...enzyme malfunction. Something.

Regardless: it was innocent. It was mostly-if-not-entirely innocent, and well-intentioned, and Steve would like it to be documented and acknowledged that _he_ was not the one who decided it’d be a good idea to go rummaging through their colleagues’ bedside tables, alright? It was not Steve’s idea, and therefore Steve cannot be blamed for the thing that was found as a result.

The star-spangled, silicone _thing_ sitting on the duvet between them, shaped like a...bowling pin.

A very thin, very particularly-contoured bowling pin.

Steve tries swallowing; gives up quick.

He knows a lost cause when he sees one.

“But it isn’t—” he tries again, a last ditch effort, but Tony cackles far too loudly, and the heating must be on, that’s all, really; it’s just very, very warm.

Very warm.

“What?” Tony asks, flips his shade all the way up onto the top of his head, his hair catching, sticking up just so. “They were just in a particularly patriotic mood when they scored a shopping spree at the adult toy store?”

Steve thinks his feels nauseated, or faint, or both. It’s the heat, he swears.

“You knew he had a bit of a crush, after all. Those fucking trading cards,” Tony says. “It’s Clint’s side of the bed, too. Kinky,” he tacks on, glancing through the open drawer; Steve’s not sure what he finds to know which side belongs to whom, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to.

“But there’s—”

“Hate to break it to you,” Tony’s tone drips with the kind of mock sympathy that would grate on Steve’s nerves at any other time, in any other situation, except here and now; “but you’re a best seller.”

Dear God.

“It’s a set, too,” Tony adds, as if that makes it any better. “We’ve all got one.”

And no, that doesn’t make it any better, because there’s not much in the world that can make the fact that there’s a red, white, and blue Captain America vibrator sitting on the bedding in front of him, in the bedroom of his friends and coworkers, any easier to process.

The star at the center stares at him hatefully, and Steve thinks he might throw up.

“You’re kidding.”

“I shit you not, Jolly Rogers,” Tony quips. “Pep picked up my version months ago. Wanted to see if it resembled the genuine article.”

Steve has to blink about five times before the object on the bed stops gleaming red and gold behind his eyes, before he gets a grip on the heat coiling in his belly, the sudden tightness in his thighs.

Damn it _all_.

“I can tell you’re dying to ask,” Tony shoots off, and Steve hopes this is just Tony being Tony: oblivious, self-absorbed, and absolutely not aware of the fact that Steve’s starting to sweat, just a little.

And fine, no. The room isn’t even hot.

“It’s a paltry imitation,” Tony says with just a hint of disappointment, countered by the cheekiness of his wink. “But it serves it’s purpose.”

Steve feels his brow quirk before he can stop it, and Tony’s grin turns wolfish. Son of a bitch.

“Does the term ‘double-team’ mean anything to you, Uncle Sam?”

Steve’d never had reason to test it before, but self-restraint must have been mixed up in that serum, because he has absolutely no idea how he swallows the groan that builds from his stomach and burns up his throat.

No idea at all.

“Though now I have to admit,” and Steve’s eyes shoot up at the lilt, the edge on Tony’s words: fascinated, dangerous; “I’m curious here.”

Both of those things, in combination with the fact that Tony’s got the vibrator in his hands and is sizing it up, knuckle to knuckle as he counts to himself, moving along the length.

“Are you sure that’s sanitary?” Steve asks, his voice—unexpectedly—pitched far too high; Tony—quite expectedly—ignores the fact that he’s spoken at all.

“Because at worst, you’ve got a case for false advertising,” Tony frowns, and Steve’s seen Tony use every tool in his arsenal to intimidate, to make a man feel small, and yet: Tony’s eyes on him just now are searing, they make him boneless as he feels himself grow hard, and oh, fucking hell, Steve doesn’t know what to do with this, in this, he doesn’t know.

“At best,” Tony licks his lips, tilts his head, considering as he stares at the toy, looks back to Steve, eyes wandering lower, lower, and Steve’s not lightheaded, no, but it’s a close thing, it’s a damn close thing when Tony’s tongue slips out, laps at the last word: “Libel.”

Holy _hell_.

“But, but you, you’re,” Steve stutters, because he never trained for this, never even _thought_ to plan for _this_ , but there are parts of him that are immutable, and he is a gentleman, and some lines can’t be crossed no matter how much he _wants_.

Tony, though: Tony isn’t the sort to believe in lines, and Tony must read the hesitance in the set of his muscles, tensed and trembling—Tony must see it, because he smirks.

The curve of his mouth glides, fits against Steve’s mouth like nothing else.

“My dear Virginia,” Tony murmurs, close against Steve’s face, his flesh, “also happens to be a proud owner a well-loved Black Widow clitoral stimulator.” 

And, and—

Oh.

“And she doesn’t care for tickling the taco on her own, if you catch my drift,” Tony’s lips curl just a bit , and Steve feels his own tug with them, and oh.

 _Oh_.

If Steve thought he’d been blushing before, he’s downright positive that he could fry an egg on his cheek in a quick second, just now. Maybe two.

Tony just chuckles; just grins all the harder.

“There really isn’t any need for modesty here,” Tony says, and Steve’s not exactly experienced, but he’s pretty sure this is normally supposed to be less frank, less cut and dry, less business like with just a hint of sarcasm but fuck all, he doesn’t care, because Tony’s hands are firm against his hips, Tony’s breath is warm against his upper lip, and Tony’s eyes glimmer with lights that shouldn’t catch, and dear God in Heaven, Steve’s about to come unhinged.

“I’ve seen your medical records,” Tony exhales against Steve’s mouth, thumbs at the juts of Steve’s collarbone, tongue tickling at Steve’s lips on the consonants.

“And frankly,” Tony adds, tone low, heavy, and it sinks hot in Steve’s gut: “your uniform is very,” and Tony crowds him, impossibly close.

“Very,” and it’s not even a thrust, it’s not a grind so much as a sensual roll of the hips, and this time Steve can’t help the groan that escapes, that shivers through him and sets his nerve ending trembling when Tony leans and whispers, harsh and tight against his ear, against the whole of him:

“ _Tight_.”

And just as the tension seems fit to shatter, Tony cuts it straight through, lances at the center and lets the halves fall. He’s got Steve’s shirt undone before the man can inhale to any real effect, and before his lungs can empty Tony’s laved a stripe of wet straight down Steve’s chest, his fingers on the belt impeding his progress, and Steve can feel the rumble of his own pulse against his ribs, surging at the seam in his jeans.

“And I mean, once you’ve seen Bruce’s model?” Tony speaks against the hint of hair peeking out above Steve’s fly, and dear Lord, Steve can feel each strand move, he can feel the follicles tingle, he can, _fuck_ , Tony’s smirking mouth is there against his skin. “Any concerns with regard to size go straight out the fucking window, I promise.”

Tony’s teeth are there against the band of his briefs, his breath against Steve’s cock like an accident, and it’s glorious, it’s unbearable, and Steve can’t think straight, Steve can barely breathe.

“Now _that_ I can vouch for as being totally inaccurate for the man, and wildly impractical for regular use. He doesn’t mind watching it go between a different set of lips. Cheeks. Whatever. Would you believe Dr. Gamma Ray’s got a thing for redheads? Who knew, right?” 

Tony’s talking, he’s paused in his progress on Steve’s pants and he’s talking, and that’s unfortunate, because Steve can’t quite focus on what Tony’s saying—he can focus on the timbre of Tony’s voice, which is fantastic and something that Steve really, _really_ wants against the hard line of his erection, immediately if possible, but the content, that’s lost entirely—and while the graze of Tony’s beard against the tender skin beneath the nest of hair at his groin is perhaps the sweetest thing Steve’s ever known, he thinks the crotch of his jeans may split if he gets any harder, and he likes these jeans.

He also likes his blood pumping, safely in his veins, and he thinks his heart’s about ready to burst, to be honest, for the way it’s thrashing, for the way he’s panting, for the way it’s all too _much_.

“I hate to admit it,” Tony says, nonchalant, but the way he’s easing the zip down tooth by tooth is criminal, is downright cruel; “but Pepper’s far better with that one. It’s kind of absurd.”

Steve bites his tongue, tastes blood and bears down, tries to keep himself together but he can’t, he can’t—

“Me, though?” And Tony’s glancing up at Steve, Tony sees, he has to see all the unfettered, unveiled want that Steve never realized lived inside him, never would have wanted anyone to know: Tony sees it all, and if he blinks with perfect equanimity as he peels Steve’s clothes from his skin to the thighs, as presses the barest brush of lips against the base of Steve’s straining cock, then Steve thinks he’s always known, somewhere, that Tony was more heart than anything else, beneath the bravado. Steve thinks if he’s going to crumble, it’s best to do it at the hands of a man who knows how to pick up broken pieces and make something new.

“Me,” Tony whispers, and his tongue grazes the rough skin of Steve’s shaft, and Tony’s ring fingers trace the swell of Steve’s balls, and Steve knows nothing, Steve vibrates with it as Tony mouths at the livid skin: “I do just fine with the real thing.”

Steve’s not ashamed to admit his pulse trips once he hears, once he processes the words and the way Tony’s breath hitches as he watches, as he takes in Steve’s length and runs the line of his tongue against the slit, sucks soft but insistent, teasing at the tip until Steve whimpers and he pulls off; smirks, but not unkindly.

“Oh yeah,” Tony says, a little breathless. “Libel. They’re underselling you for sure.”

Steve doesn’t know why, exactly, but he holds his breath as Tony shifts, as he settles on his haunches and tilts his head just so, giving Steve a sidelong glance as he dips down, quips once more in low, heated tones as he makes to drop his jaw, flatten his tongue and hollow his cheeks and Jesus, _Jesus_ —

“I’d sue.”


End file.
